


what does your body know

by thelaststormqueen



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Gen, Goretober 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:05:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8233919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelaststormqueen/pseuds/thelaststormqueen
Summary: Rick’s got Morty’s blood on his hands, this time literally.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Goretober prompt for day 7: stitches.
> 
> Surprisingly, no content warnings.

Blame the alcohol, the stress, or maybe just bad parenting, but Rick doesn’t notice that his grandson got shot until they’re back in the garage.

“I-I can’t believe you, Rick!” Morty is howling when Rick turns his attention away from his own wounds. Minor wounds, of course, just scrapes and bruises. Nothing like the gash Morty’s got in his leg, because Rick is a professional and not a fucking idiot.

“Yeah, M-morty, well, I can’t believe you, you let yourself get hit by those alien fucks,” Rick snaps back. He takes a swig from his hip flask and rummages through his pockets for some kind of painkiller for Morty: nothing.

“Y-y-you were the one who got me into this!” Rick can tell that his grandson’s in pain, not just bitching, from the way his stutter’s gotten worse and how high Morty’s voice is. He’s also curled into the fetal position, which never means anything good. “I t-told you I didn’t wanna go.”

“You say that every time,” mutters Rick, bending to examine the gash in Morty’s leg. It’s glowing pink, which means he got hit with the alien’s poisoned bullet, which Rick’s got the remedy for. The real problem is how deep it is. “Okay, Morty, okay, welp, I th-think you’re gonna need stitches for this one.”

“Oh _geez,_ ” Morty says, voice breaking on the second word. “And, wh-what, you’re gonna be the one to do it? You’re drunk, R-rick!”

“Well, we can’t, can’t take you to a hospital, you little asshole!” Rick finds a pair of clean latex gloves and snaps them on. “The bullet’s poisoned you, obviously, and no way am I gonna explain to Dr. I’ve-Never-Left-This-Galaxy how to treat it. I’m gonna do it myself.”

Morty’s face looks pale. Paler than usual, anyways. He’s losing blood. “Poison?”

“Th-that’s what happens when you try to be a hero, _Mmmmorty._ You get it bad.”

“Oh,” manages Morty, his voice strung out. “Am - am I gonna die?”

Rick whacks him on the head with the tube of antidote. “No, you little idiot, you’re gonna be fine. Stop being a baby, I’m gonna take care of you.”

“Okay,” Morty says dubiously. He lets Rick help him off the floor and onto a upended empty 100 Piece Lego Star Wars™ set that Jerry had bought last year, with only minor whimpering. 

“You crying yet?” says Rick, turning away to find his suture kit. It’s somewhere around here.

“N- _no,”_ Morty stutters angrily. “Y-you got me shot, you know, if you h-hadn’t dragged me into that dimension - ”

“You’ll be fine, now stop, stop complaining and take your pants off.”

_“What?”_

“Oh, c-come on, Morty, I gotta sew you up, I’m saving your worthless life, I can’t do it if you’re wearing jeans. Just, I-I don’t know, think of Jennifer or whatever her name is and strip.”

“Jessica,” mumbles Morty, but he complies. His pants are torn open from the bullet and soaked with blood anyways, and Rick guesses he’ll just have to burn those. Poor Beth has enough to wash with all of his lab coats; he won’t bother her with poisoned jeans too.

Morty flinches when Rick puts his hands on him. He looks awfully small and weak, all stripped down like this with half a quarter of a litre of blood outside his body and dripping on Rick’s garage floor. “You’re gonna be fine,” repeats Rick, mostly reassuring his grandson, partially reminding himself. “We gotta, gotta clean the wound first, though, Morty. Hold on.”

He pulls off the antidote cap with his teeth, because Rick’s other hand is occupied holding Morty in place so he doesn’t shake his way through the procedure, and smears some of the black goo across Morty’s wound. It manages to dissolve the poison, but it makes Morty scream.

“Sh-shut up, you little baby!” snarls Rick. “You want your mom to hear you? Your stupid dad? Ohhh, I’m sure that’ll go over great!”

“It hurts, R-rick! Geez, have some, some sympathy, huh?”

“Th-this is gonna be the least painful part of me sticking a needle in your arm, Morty, okay, I n-need you to be calm. Do you, do you want me to gag you?”

“Don’t you have any, I dunno, aspirin? I-ibuprofen?”

Rick rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure, Morty, let’s just pop into the nearest Walgreens and ask for some p-p-painkiller. By then you’ll have b-bled out, though, so I don’t think you’ll be able to ask!”

“Fine th-then! Just do it, Rick, okay? You’re not helping right now!”

It’s a miracle that between the previously mentioned combination of booze and stress, Rick finds his hands to be reasonably still as he threads the needle. “Okay, M-morty, okay, here we go, I need you to be quiet, real quiet, got that? In the morning, y-you’re not gonna say anything to your mom, right?”

“F-fine,” Morty says blankly, eyes focused on the needle as it nears his wound. The gash is a lot less swollen than it was before, but the residue of the antidote makes it shine black, and it’s still bleeding. Rick thinks that maybe he should use a tourniquet. He thinks that it’s probably too late to do so.

Sure, Rick has sewn himself up a few times before - sitting shotgun in his own ship, pouring whatever alcohol he’s got over the wound, taking a gulp for himself, and pulling the needle through his skin - but Morty is different. With Morty, it matters if he makes a mistake. It matters if the person on the receiving end of the needle is in pain. So Rick keeps one hand on Morty’s naked, trembling thigh, breathes evenly, and carefully sows his grandson up.

Morty starts crying halfway through, but in a frozen, detached way. Rick’s got his eyes on the wound and the needle, but in his peripheral he can see the tears on Morty’s face.

“You’re okay,” he says without thinking. Rick’s got Morty’s blood on his hands, this time literally, all over his latex gloves. “C-come on, Morty, I always make you better, huh? You’re gonna, gonna be fine.”

“Okay, Grandpa Rick,” Morty says faintly from above him.

The needle slips through the last bit of flesh, and Rick ties off the string. “Heeeey, Morty, there you go! We did it! Come, c’mon Morty, let’s - ”

Morty, it seems, has fainted. 

He’s slumped against the wall behind him, face pale, and Rick sighs. 

“Dumbass,” he mutters.

Rick carefully applies a bandage to Morty’s thigh, then pulls off the gloves and runs his hands under the sink’s water. Morty’s blood washes off him easily, swirling down the drain.

“Okay, M-morty, we gotta g-get you to bed now, kid,” he tells Morty’s unconscious body. “You got school in the morning, right? D-don’t wanna make you late for school.”

Morty doesn’t respond.

Rick eases one hand under his legs, the other behind his back, and picks his grandson up. Morty is so damn skinny that he’s lighter than half the equipment Rick carries around, all bones and sharp elbows. He’s just a kid, really, just a baby that Rick drags around through all the universes he can find. Just a kid - one that Rick let get shot.

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself as he carries Morty out of the garage, still pantless, and into the house.

It’s dark in Beth’s home, but stupid Morty’s left the computer on in his room, so Rick can find his way down the hall. He deposits Morty in his bed by the fluorescent light of the laptop, pauses, and after some deliberation, pulls the sheets up to Morty’s torso to cover the wound and lack of pants.

Rick thinks that he used to tuck Beth in the same way, when they were both a lot younger.

He closes the computer, dousing the room in darkness, and takes a swig from the flask again. In the less cynical part of his mind, Rick hopes Morty will wake up in the morning having completely forgot about tonight. It’ll be best for both of them.

Rick falls asleep in the garage, curled up next to the stain left by Morty’s blood.


End file.
